More than anything, more than life
by CurtisMcQueen8
Summary: When Thranduil arrives in Dale and fights in the battle of the five armies, he is confronted with his own hitherto deeply buried emotions.


_Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters!_

_Note: I know that many Tolkien fans, including me, are not satisfied with how the Mirkwood Elves were presented in Peter Jackson's "The Battle of the Five Armies". The story below might make it seem that I support the movie's canon (the necklace, the white gems of Eryn Lasgalen, Legolas' mother dying in Angmar and so forth) but I do not. It was painful to see how Thranduil's (and, to a certain extent, Legolas') character was changed in the movie and it still makes me very emotional even to think about it, especially Thranduil almost turning into a kinslayer. But still, the movie exists and so do my feelings and I just tried to give what was said in the movie some sort of background, to explain the characters' actions with my own words, so to speak._

Thranduil stood in the ruin of Dale, surrounded by broken walls of stone, the smell of death all around him. The ground below him was stained with his people's blood and the biting coppery smell that mingled with the icy wind reminded him of the fragility of life. He tried to breathe but the cold air seemed to pierce his lungs, paralyzing him from the inside. The hundreds of Elves lying dead at his feet could have lived, could have lived forever, if he had not led them to war for the one purpose of reclaiming the white gems that were rightfully his. A strange feeling of doubt began to creep into his mind, pumping the blood faster through his veins. There was only one thing that he could do now that would be right, right for his people, so he gave the order to retreat. It was the only way he could save at least some of the lives he had jeopardized. The wizard, of course, tried to change his mind but Thranduil would not listen to him.

"Enough Elven blood has been spilled in these forsaken lands," he told him fiercely. "I will not risk any more lives of my people."

He turned away and then he saw Tauriel, standing in the archway that opened into the bridge connecting the city of Dale with the area of land at the feet of Erebor. "You will not turn away," she told him, giving _him_ orders. "Not this time." She was trying to make her voice sound steady but he noticed that it was trembling, tears glistering in her eyes. She was hurt, deeply hurt.

"Get out of my way," he warned her, fearing his own voice would crack. Deep inside him, he knew that she was right. He did not know where these thoughts were coming from all of a sudden. He knew he had been a good king, a good politician, who had done right by his people. He had tried to protect them from evil, had strengthened the borders of the Woodland Realm against the enemy to keep them safe. He even knew he had done right by imprisoning the dwarves. However, this was not about politics. This was about so much more than whether he was a good king or not.

She made it clear to him when she said that the dwarves were going to die. She had helped them escape from Esgaroth, had probably become very fond of them. At least, of one of them. Her feelings for the black-haired dwarf were obvious and the mere thought of those feelings pierced Thranduil's heart. Not so much because it was a dwarf she had fallen in love with—circumstances would end this love on their own—but because she had fallen in love at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, he was caught unawares by a fierce desire to pain her. He did not know where it was coming from but he could not be bothered to question its origin either.

"Yes, they will die," Thranduil hissed, his thoughts whirling. His voice sounded strangely hostile, even alien, in his own ears. "Today, tomorrow, ten years from now or a hundred years from now. What does it matter? They are mortal." He knew had to stop himself as the words pried out, knew he had to force himself to breathe.

"You think your life is worth more than theirs?" Tauriel asked.

Thranduil could hardly admit it to himself but he secretly envied her for the flicker in her eyes. She was still young, in Elven terms anyway, and she was passionately trying to do the right thing. What the right thing was he could no longer tell. "But there is no love in it," she went on. "There is no love in _you_!"

Her words hurt him more than he could have ever imagined. They hurt him more than the arrow she pointed directly at his face. It was clear that he had lost her respect and that she was ready to kill the man she had sworn to protect. However, her disobedience did not hurt him. She had always been rebellious and he knew he had taken a risk when he had appointed her the captain of the guard. What hurt him was that she accused him of coldness, of being incapable of loving another person. Memories of other times flashed before his eyes, memories of when his home was still known as Greenwood the Great and the trees were not foul and rotten but blossoming in the most wonderful shades of green. He saw his wife holding their baby in her arms, strands of her long, golden hair softly touching their son's cheeks and his little fingers clutching at a curl that dangled over his nose. He saw himself walking over to the white stone bench on which they were sitting, running his fingers through his wife's hair, whispering into her ear how much he loved her, how much he loved their son. It was right then that Thranduil realized that he had forgotten how much he used to love his son; an awareness that infuriated him so fiercely that, in one swift movement, he grabbed Tauriel's bow, broke it, drew his sword and pointed it at her throat. When he saw the terror in her eyes, he froze, unable to move. She was shaking, her eyes flaring up with the knowledge that she was most certainly going to die.

Then, suddenly, his son, whom he had failed to love as much as he was supposed to, stepped between them, pressing Thranduil's blade down with his own sword. His eyes were cold and hard when he said, "If you are going to hurt her, you have to kill me, too."

Thranduil knew Legolas appreciated if not loved the young Elf. He appreciated her eagerness, her determination, her strong sense of morality. Thranduil knew that Legolas was right and that he was wrong. Wrong about everything. He gave up resistance, his shoulders sinking. He watched his son touch Tauriel's arm, assuring her that he would go with her to Raven Hill, where the dwarf she cared so much about was fighting the servants of Azog the Defiler and his offspring.

Thranduil feared his heart would break, the pain in his chest being so much more intense than any physical aches brought upon him by orc blades or even the wrath of dragon fire in his long life. He had spent so much time obsessing over the white gems of Eryn Lasgalen, which lay in that mountain, because he had been convinced that they were the last thing that remained of his wife's memory. Long ago, he had given the white stones to Thror, king under the mountain, so that the dwarven king's smiths could fashion a beautiful necklace for the Elvenqueen. When the time came, as it was not seldom with dwarves and elves, there was a dispute over the payment and Thranduil never received the necklace. He also never saw the precious white stones again. For many long years, he had believed that, if only he could recover the white gems from Smaug's lair, he would get a part of his dead wife back. He had believed it would make himself feel a little more alive again.

As Thranduil watched Legolas run away from him with the elf that had attempted to kill his own father, it sank in that his obsession with the white stones was as despicable as he had always considered King Thror's obsession with all the riches in the Lonely Mountain. Thranduil had always degraded the dwarves as blind and driven by greed, had perceived them as lower beings who were unable to see past their own desire. It dawned on him then that he was exactly like them, exactly like Thorin Oakenshield, who desired the Arkenstone above all else. The Arkenstone—which the trustful Halfling had delivered to them because he truly believed that he could halt a war between two peoples long at enmity—gave Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the right to rule. It gave him a sense of identity, it confirmed who he was and made his life complete. Thranduil had always believed that reclaiming the white gems he had wanted to give to his wife would make _his_ life complete again. There was no grave he could bring them to but, nonetheless, he had always thought if only he regained the gems, he would finally be able to honor the memory of his beloved wife in a way that would have done her justice.

It was not until then that the difference between him and the dwarves began to dawn on Thranduil: The desire for gold had driven Thror mad. The riches of Erebor had attracted Smaug. The firedrake had tainted all the gold in the Lonely Mountain. Thorin's mind had been sickened because of his desire to call the Arkenstone his own again the minute he had entered the mountain. Thranduil, the great Elvenking himself, however, had no excuse. He was not stricken with what the people in Middle Earth used to call "dragon sickness". He had simply lost his way because he had been overwhelmed with grief, sadness and the injustice that had been done to him. When his heart should have gone out to his beloved son, he had sealed it so tightly that even he himself had slowly forgotten how to unseal it again. Over time, he had let his emotions distort his good judgment. He had concentrated on all the evil in the world because evil was so much more predictable, so much more manageable than grief.

Yet, Thranduil realized that there was also much more than evil to this world. There was a brave bowman willing to give his own life for his people, a group of men who had once been confident and cheerful but had lost everything in the dark years after Smaug's descent upon the mountain. There was a little hobbit determined to help his dwarfish friends in any way he could because he believed not only in them but also in friendship, love and loyalty. There was a wizard dedicating everything to the task he was supposed to fulfil, remaining faithful to what was right despite all the wrong he had encountered on the way. There was an Elven guard defying the orders of her king because he had forgotten what that right was. And there was an Elven prince joining that guard in desperate need to do what he, also, believed was the right thing because his own father had failed to teach him what the right thing was because he did not know. Not anymore.

Thranduil gazed up at Raven Hill, his Elf eyes catching his son fighting the servants of the enemy. He was paralyzed with sadness, moving slowly toward the archway under which Tauriel had stood and shattered his world to pieces with two short sentences. The white gems, Thranduil suddenly saw as clear as day, were altogether worthless. Gems would bring him back neither love nor memory. There was a much more tangible thing that connected him to his dead wife and this legacy of their love was bouncing around the snow-covered watchtower right now, fighting for whatever good was left in the dark place Middle Earth had become. Thranduil slowly walked through the archway and over the bridge to the wasteland below the mountain's feet, which was covered with the cadavers of elves, men, dwarves and orcs. As his brain registered the incredible heap of corpses on the snowy ground, Thranduil was stricken with fear that Legolas, too, might have lost his life in a battle his own father had only joined because of _his_ blind desire. Thranduil quickened his pace, hurrying over the plain toward the steps that led up to Raven Hill.

The air was icy, full of death, wrath and ruin. The cold air sent chills down the Elvenking's spine. As he entered the old watchtower and climbed up the stairs, his eyes darted left and right, catching sight of uncountable orc cadavers on his way up. He hastened even more until he reached the first level of the tower's structure after a seemingly endless pair of stairs. The stony walls were cold, the ground beneath his feet snowy and the sky laden with dark grey clouds. An odor of death and despair hung in the air, suffocating him. He stepped over the bodies of four dead orcs. His eyes darted around the forsaken place but Legolas was not among the dead.

Then, fortunately, his son stood right in front of him. Thranduil's heart stopped for a beat, so glad was he to see that Legolas was still alive. He knew that it was time to tell his son all the things he had wanted and needed to hear all his life. He wanted to start but the words were stuck. Thranduil looked at his son, studied his face, secretly naming all the features Legolas shared with his mother: the golden hair, the slender nose, the passion for justice glimmering in his eyes.

"I can't go back," Legolas told him, passing him as if he was not his son or, which was less important right now but also important in the scheme of things, the heir to his throne.

"Where are you going?" Thranduil asked, his voice sounding eerily husky in his own ears. He knew the possibility that he might lose his son forever if he did not find the right words now was very real. Still, words failed him. Words could not articulate what he felt.

"I don't know," Legolas replied, avoiding his gaze.

"Go north," Thranduil heard himself say. He did not know how to appeal to his son other than by giving him orders or advice, which was sad in and of itself. "Go look for the Dúnedain. Among them, there is a young ranger. His father, Arathorn, was a good man. _He_ could become a great man." At this, Thranduil locked eyes with his son. He had chosen his words carefully, trying to make Legolas understand that he perceived his son as a better person than he himself could ever be. Thranduil, although he did not question his abilities as a king and ruler in general, sensed that Legolas' heart was less corrupted than his and that, should his son ever become king, he would make a greater king than he himself had ever been.

"What's his name?" Legolas asked, not returning his father's gaze.

"In the wilderness, they call him 'Strider'. His true name, you'll have to discover for yourself," Thranduil said, expecting his son to ask another question. He did not. He gave a terse nod and turned around. A pain shot through Thranduil's body. He needed to keep his son near him, if only for a minute more, to look at his face, the features of which he had never fully acknowledged as his wife's likeness because it had been too painful. "Legolas," he said, his voice softening, almost cracking.

His son turned around, slowly.

"Your mother loved you," Thranduil went on, his words paining him as much as they probably pained Legolas. "More than anything. More than life."

Legolas stared at his father and felt his eyes narrow with what felt like hatred at first. He remembered the father Thranduil used to be when he was an Elfling, remembered the epic good night stories about the Elves and the Valar he had read him, the songs he had taught him and all the lovely places in the once green wood he had taken him. Thranduil stood still, watching him, his whitish blond hair falling over his shoulder and dancing in the cold. His glare was icy and sharp, the freezing grey-blue of his eyes piercing like needles, but Legolas could sense that Thranduil's façade was slowly breaking. He had long stopped asking why his father was like this. "He's cold," Tauriel, who had now openly dared to accuse him of being incapable of love in front of Gandalf and many others, would say. Legolas knew that this was not true. His father was not cold. He was a very sad man and Legolas had no idea who that man truly was. He was talking about love and life but Legolas felt as if he had never seen him before. "There are no memories, nothing," Legolas had just told Tauriel about his mother a few days ago, when they had spied out their enemy. It was true. He could grasp no memories of other, happier times.

What flooded into his mind were images of Thranduil slicing off an orc's head after promising to set him free, talking about how other lands were not his concern anymore. Legolas remembered Tauriel asking him if they were not all part of this world and if it was not their duty to aid the good forces in the war that was upon them. Would he not be a better king than his father if he concerned himself with other people's concerns? Legolas had followed Tauriel to war in the belief that he was doing the right thing. But Tauriel had not been concerned with the world. She had been concerned with one dwarf in it. Legolas had risked his life for a love that was not meant to be and was now sealed anyway, now that the dwarf was dead. Legolas had watched her place a seemingly precious stone in the dwarf's hand, the value of which he guessed was purely sentimental, and cry over his body, the tears dripping onto the dwarf's cheeks. She held the dwarf's hand and pressed it to her cheek.

Legolas turned away, knowing that she had found true love, however short-lived. He still could not tell what true love was. He loved Tauriel, too, if not quite in the same way she apparently loved the Dwarven archer. He appreciated her in his life as a person he could share his deepest thoughts with because his father was somehow unable to communicate his. His love for her was deep and unconditional. He also loved his father, although he had never quite been able to reach out to him. Aside from love, there had always been a bit of fear. It was the fear that was now gone.

After seeing Thranduil losing his temper like this, pointing an Elvish blade at his own kin, Legolas knew his father was a deeply troubled man. He did not need to fear him. If anything, he needed to pity him. But he could not bring himself to take a step toward him. As if he sensed his son's thoughts, Thranduil tore his freezing grey eyes off him and bowed his head. He bade him farewell, placing his hand in front of his chest. Legolas could not return the gesture. He stretched out his hand, somehow wanting to touch his father, to connect with him in any way he could, let his fingertips touch Thranduil's fingers, but he could not bring himself to reach out to him. Not now, not yet.

_Farewell, Ada_, he thought. _I love you, too. And some day, I know I will forgive you. _

He turned around, his hand still stretched out. He pulled it back and placed it onto his chest as he left the battle scene that had caused him nothing but disappointment and pain. He could not know then that the quest his father had sent him to would change his life forever, in the best of ways possible. He could not know that he would find true love and friendship a few years farther down the road.

_I love you, Legolas,_ Thranduil thought as he watched his son leave Raven Hill, wishing he would be able to shout out the words. But he was too hurt, too broken and, still, too proud. _More than anything. More than life. _Tears sprang to his eyes. He could not hold them back any longer. The pain was too intense. A wave of emotions washed over him and forced the Elvenking onto his knees.

~ The End ~


End file.
